ArchivedLogs:Intuition

Intuition
Dramatis Personae Flicker, Steve
In Absentia	2016-04-28 "/He/ and I are good."
Location <NYC> Harbor Commons - Sunroom - Lower East Side
Bright and warm, this room is set up to enjoy a little bit of the outdoors even year-round. Tall glass panes make up most of its wall in between wood supports, providing a wide three-sided view of the garden and yard outside. As well as the inner doors leading back into the kitchens and dining room, an outer door leads out to the outdoor gardens, as well. Inside, the room is airy and green -- a plethora of potted herbs and plants hang from the ceiling, as well as ring the room in a series of narrow wooden raised-beds that provide growing space for a selection of herbs year-round. Outside of the herb beds that ring the room, this place is designed simply to come and relax; quiet and simple, with clean stone floors and neutral-toned wicker furniture adorned with comfortable cushioning. Some of the chairs ring stone-and-glass tables for eating or conversing; a few more solitary seats come in the form of rocking chairs or netted hammock-chairs hanging from the ceiling. It's been dreary, today. Grey. Drizzly. Chill. Outside there's still a desultory rain falling, hovering just at the tipping point of Should I Bother With An Umbrella. In the sunroom, as a result, there's not much /sun/, though outside it hasn't quite yet set. Just a pattering of droplets against the windows. One of the tables currently holds a half-empty plate of cookies, a few mugs that once had hot cocoa. Flicker, /presentably/ dressed in khakis and black-striped blue polo, flexible prosthetic arm still emblazoned with dragonflies, is not alone in here -- though he's just now saying goodbye to the pair of young men he has been here with. Ushering them back out into the wet-cold evening with a quick smile that fades once they are gone. He blips back over to the chair he's been in -- picks up his own mug, barely touched, frowning down into it as his fingers curl tight against it. Steve has been finding his slow, wending way down the climbing sculpture, visibly favoring his right arm. He wears a gray t-shirt with a futuristic landscape of blue, purple and silver towering over a cartoonishly adorable golden retriever puppy and dark blue jeans, carrying a fresh new sketchbook under one arm. Slipping into the kitchen, he stares around blankly, lost. Then, finally, moves through it without taking anything. Perhaps he spots Flicker in the Sunroom, or perhaps the current of habit simply carries him that way. He looks down at the plate of cookies table for a moment as if he doesn't understand what he's looking at. Then at Flicker's mug. Then at Flicker. Smiles, faintly -- it fades at once. "I'm not interrupting anything?" Flicker tenses at the sound of approaching footsteps, but it passes with a quick glance up. Then back to his mug. Then back to Steve. "Oh! Uh." His smile is quick to return -- /his/ doesn't fade, quite yet. "I'm pretty sure cookies were /meant/ to be interrupted. Anyway my. Company's --" He gestures with his mug toward the door. "Gone. Do you like snickerdoodles? You look like you could use --" His good shoulder shrugs quickly. "Think I may still have cocoa on the stove, too." "I like snickerdoodles." Steve looks back at the plate, considering it. "Saw the cocoa, but wasn't sure if anyone had plans for it. Smells nice." He turns back toward the kitchen, but stops mid-motion. Looks more closely at Flicker. Faint wrinkle forming between his brows. Left hand raising toward him -- not so much hesitant as simply /slow./ "Are you...do you need..." He shakes his head, finally settling on, "How are you doing?" "They're not quite as --" Flicker sounds a bit apologetic as he looks at the cookies. Shakes his head, though, lets this drop off. His eyes skate back to the door, reflexively, at the question. Then drop down to the empty cups on the table. One shoulder lifts -- his smile twisting a little lopsided. "Frustrated. I don't know." He sets his own mug down. Lifts his arm to meet the slow one Steve proffers, squeezing the other man's shoulder briefly. "Probably a lot I need. /You/ look like you need a cocoa. Give me a minute." He gestures to the empty chairs as he collects both used mugs and his own still full one. Blips back off to the kitchen. The hand that Steve lays on Flicker's shoulder is heavy, as if for all his strength he has grown weary of holding up one limb. "Gracias." Not clear whether he means the cookies or the physical contact or something else altogether. "I realized when I'd half said it that it was likely a complicated question to answer." He manages a small, rueful smile. "But I would like some, yes." If he was about to thank Flicker again, he breaks off and teleporter vanishes. Settles himself onto the wicker couch with probably more care than necessary. Opens the sketchbook in his lap to the very first page, a half-finished drawing of Tola and Egg riding together in a basket. Or Tola, at least, is sitting; Egg is flopped over in an awkward take tangle of limbs, one wing wrapped around the handle of the basket and the other around their companion for balance. It takes more than a minute -- a couple, really -- for the teleporter to return. With two mugs of cocoa -- Flicker's own is steaming once more. He sets the second down in front of Steve. Pauses to glance down at the sketchbook, a quick smile coming to his face. "You've really captured their /elegance/ so well." The claw-tip of his hand gestures stiffly to Egg and their tangle of limbs. Flitting back quickly to his own seat, he slumps into it in a heavy /flop/. "/You/ doing okay, man? You seem a little." Another quick shrug. "Heavy." Steve has already started on a cookie by the time Flicker returns. "Gracias." He picks up his cocoa, but does not immediately drink from it. "Babies aren't generally known for their grace and coordination anyway, but that child takes it to a new level." He shakes his head. "Heavy?" His brows wrinkle with thought. "I guess I'm tired. Haven't slept much, or well, lately." Pale blue eyes consider Flicker closely again. "What are you finding frustrating? At this particular juncture." Takes an experimental sip of cocoa. Nods approvingly. Flicker's wince is sympathetic, at the mention of not sleeping. He does take a sip of his cocoa -- though his next wince, small sucking in of breath, is really just for the /heat/. Which doesn't actually stop him from taking another drink straight afterward. "God." His initial answer is wry. Steve nibbles on his cookie. Takes another drink. At Flicker's reply he blinks rapidly. "God?" Not /incredulous/, exactly, but it clearly was not among the answers he had expected. "How is He frustrating you?" A flush of red creeps into Flicker's scarred face. His head shakes, and he sits up a little straighter in his seat. "Well. No. /He/ and I are good." His brows pull inward. "... I think." This, with a little bit of a laugh as he takes another sip of cocoa. "But his people here -- that can get a little rockier." He sucks his cheeks inward, teeth catching at the skin. His eyes flit back up to Steve. "Is it ever hard for you? I mean. You -- and war. And Jax. And the. Being Catholic and all, doesn't that get --" He sounds a touch apologetic. "Tricky?" "Your congregation is taking issue with your politics -- now?" Steve raises his brows. Eyes dart briefly in the direction of the front door. "The Catholic Church wholly embraced the jus bellum doctrine in my day -- just war. None of the congregations I celebrated with in...my previous life ever took issue. Now, I go to Saint Martin's, and if anyone there objects to my participation on the raid, they've kept it to themselves." He polishes off his cookie, takes a long draught of cocoa. "It's so strange to consider that I risk the Church's ire not by killing, but loving." His lips press into a thin line, and the breath he draws looks almost painful. "Pretty sure God has a different view on that." Flicker's lips press together, brows furrowing as he studies Steve. "I can't say I have any insight into what God thinks, but. It /does/ seem like a bit of a -- skewed. Way to look at things." He settles back in his chair again. Lowers his mug to his lap. "{Sorry}, I'm not -- meaning to bring up. You know. Terrible." His gaze shifts away, a little unfocused as it turns out towards the windows and drizzly garden beyond. "My congregations have always had a problem with me, I guess. This time they were just -- waiting. For the right opportunity to show just how much." Steve shakes his head. "I know you didn't, but...life is a minefield of terrible. Only way you could avoid bringing up things that hurt is by not talking to me at all." He wraps both of his hands around the mug as if for warmth. "And that would hurt far worse." His gaze follows Flicker's, though he looks up at the clouds. "So your congregation's issue...isn't violence, or antiauthoritarianism. Just that you're a mutant?" "Well, they say it's not. That they don't have a problem with who I am. But then all this stuff after the raid they're punishing me over so." Flicker shakes his head, a small twitch of a smile crossing his face. "{How do you atone for something you're not even slightly sorry for?}" "{You can't, but through Christ...}" Steve trails off, frowns. "I'm not actually sure whether our Churches' teachings on that align at all. But anyway, /socially/ speaking, you can reconcile without yielding on your own ethics. If the other party is willing." He reaches for another cookie, though for the moment he just turns it over in his hand. "Which seems unlikely in this case, I gather. May I ask how they are punishing you?" "There was a disciplinary council. They chose to disfellowship --" Flicker hesitates, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Um. It's a -- just means there's a lot of things I'm not allowed to do right now. Lead prayers. Vote. Take sacrament." /This/ time he sounds pretty glum. "And I'm sure they care -- people keep coming to check up on me and make sure I'm --" His jaw clenches, briefly. He puffs out a sharp breath, looking back to Steve. "How do you know what the right path /is/? I'd go break those cages open again in a heartbeat if I had to. That's not the answer they're looking for from me, though." Steve's eyes widen at the list of punishments. "That sounds a lot like excommunication. {I'm sorry, that is very difficult.} Maybe harder, if they are so solicitous of your well-being." He pauses, frowns again. "I...don't think I'm the best authority on the right path. I look for guidance in prayer, in the Scriptures, in clergy and my fellows, but to be completely honest the first sparke usually comes from in here." He taps the left side of his chest with a knuckle of the hand still holding the cookie. "I don't know what that is -- moral compass? Intuition? A soul?" His head shakes lighty. "Whatever it is, mine has no doubt that the raids were not only righteous, but a moral duty. A necessity. But...I am not of your church." "Oh, no, it's --" Flicker sits up abruptly straighter, eyes widening. "I'm not /excommunicated/, that's --" But he bites this back, shoulders sagging. Just little. "-- that's the next. Step up." His claw clicks against the side of his mug as he turns it slowly around in his hand. Takes another sip, slow. "My -- intuition says the same. Just hard to know what to do when it's at odds with. Everything else." He manages a tired smile. "Pray, I guess."